9. Spin

As a little kid did you ever spin around in circles, just spin for no reason other than to feel the wind in your hair? To feel uncontrollable for a moment, to feel dizzy, to know that once you stopped you’d be aimless, stumbling? Hold your arms out, throw your head back, and stare at the sky?

Look up at the stars, the dark black towering void above your head, and feel like you could fall forever?

Did you ever drop backwards afterwards, head twirling and tilted back, and lay out on the grass, just to flip the world on its head and throw things even more out of the ordinary? Just to feel like you might slip away and drift into that empty place that suddenly seemed like the floor instead of the ceiling?

That was exactly what I felt like I was doing as I pushed through the front door of a stranger’s house, shoved my way out into the chilly night air a step behind the boy I’d been thinking about for the last week.

We’d just rushed through the house quickly, too fast to exchange words, too keyed up to speak anyway, pushing sweaty, drunk bodies out of our way with the smell of smoke in our noses, him with more force than me. One girl who’d looked relatively sober had received the fire extinguisher, though she’d looked at me funny, confused, when I’d shoved it into her hands without a word and rushed on. People unconsciously avoided looking into either mine or Gasoline’s eyes as we pushed through the crowds of everyday teenagers; like we were infected or invisible or both. Tainted. Poisoned.

It was a powerful feeling, knowing something that they didn’t. Knowing that in minutes they could all be burning if they didn’t move fast enough. It was also terrifying, but I pushed that feeling beneath the surface, smothered it in adrenaline.

In front of me, Gasoline was a skeletal, black, shaky figure in the darkness, outlined by weak yellow streetlights, foreboding. But I followed him anyway, only glancing back once at the orange, flickering basement windows, wishing that I could see the fire there more clearly. I didn’t know where we were going, what we were going to do, but this temporary acceptance was what I’d been hoping for for days and I wasn’t going to waste it.

Blindly following another leader, another fake god, but believing that every second was worth the blasphemy. Was I right or wrong? Which one was I aiming for?

Behind us, from the house we’d now left half a street behind, a long scream squealed unpleasantly, slicing through me like steel, and almost simultaneously Gasoline veered off of the asphalt and into someone’s yard, striding with long paces toward the closest bit of fence. I struggled to keep up, having to run every few seconds. The automatic light over the garage clicked on brightly as we passed, making me flinch, but Gasoline seemed beyond reaction, just continuing his unexplainable path toward the unfamiliar backyard.

It only took a heavy shake on his part to jerk the wooden gate of the fence open, revealing the mostly empty stretch of grass behind the random house he’d chosen for a reason I couldn’t understand. I tagged along behind him, silent. There were plenty of questions floating around in my head, each as wild as the last, but I didn’t dare voice them and break the compromise we seemed to have come to.

I was afraid to remind him that I was there, afraid that he’d remember that he didn’t like me, afraid of the mayhem I’d left behind, and afraid of what my near future might hold. That fear was nearly suffocating, but the high I had from the sight of that fire was strong enough to hold it down, to tie its limbs, and to keep it quiet, hostage. Every step that took me further from the scene of my crime was hard and dragging; I wanted to go back and watch what I’d done take effect. Gasoline’s determination to get further away was confusing, strangely logical, and I didn’t quite enjoy it until I realized what exactly he was doing.

The house we were now behind was two stories tall with a back porch and an accompanying screened in area, all made of expensively sealed cedar and vinyl siding. There were plenty of windows—we were in a nice neighborhood and the house was big—but none were lit and there didn’t seem to be any activity despite the crawling increase in noise from halfway down the street. This didn’t stop me from creeping through the grass and up onto the deck like a wanted criminal, edging along behind Gasoline who was striding nonchalantly through the space, unaffected. He ignored me; I wasn’t even sure if he knew I was still there.

When he lifted himself easily onto one of the railings, I inhaled sharply, understanding and subliminally approving of what I knew he was going to do. The rational part of my brain told me that this was not only a stupid idea, but probably illegal in some way too. I could fall and snap my neck. The owner of the house could come out and call the police. Gasoline could push me. Obviously none of this was enough to make me reconsider my resolve to follow him, just made the decision stronger. I’d never felt this alive in my life.

As I watched, Gasoline straightened to his full height and grasped the gutter tightly, pulling on it a couple times to make sure it was sturdy. Then he pulled himself up until his arms were bent, easily lifting his feet from the wooden railing and beginning a slow swing that eventually ended up with him wrapping one leg onto the roof. My breath caught and held as he drifted over the space for a too-long second, then released slowly as he dragged himself the rest of the way onto the roof. On any other section of the shingling this action would have been impossible, but the incline of the roof was less steep over the screened in porch and he was able to kneel there at the edge, waiting.

This didn’t change the fact that there was no way that I was going to be able to get up there. I’d never been particularly proficient in gym class and there was no way that I would be able to do the pull up required to lift myself up. Not to mention I wasn’t even tall enough to reach the gutter in the first place. I stared up at him, at a loss, disappointed because I now knew what he was doing.

From the roof of this particular house the rest of the street would be in clear view, easily visible, straight down to the currently burning house full of children. And that was all that this little journey had really been about. Apparently he was as keen on watching the show as I was, but he was just much smarter about it. From up there the view would be heavenly.

Unfortunately I was currently still stuck on the ground. My nose squinched up as I stepped closer to the railing, experimentally nudging it with my hip, heart clinching at the instability. I made myself ignore this and placed both hands on the flat part of it before slinging one of my legs up and over to straddle it. So far so good. I glanced up at the black silhouette of Gasoline above me once before levering my legs under my body and slowly stretching upward, shaking with the rickety wood. I didn’t fall and I didn’t suddenly lose my nerve, so all was still well.

Surprisingly well, actually. Despite the precarious position, I wasn’t really scared of the height or of the climb. The only overriding emotion I felt was…exhilaration. Excited and energetic and elated. My heart was in my throat, pounding, but the sensation didn’t bother me, only drove me into taking that tiny little step that would put me directly beneath the edge of the overhanging roof. I was less afraid of all of those dangerous possibilities than I’d been of tests and parties and meetings in my past. Breaking the rules was easier for me than acting normal had been.

Another shout echoed through the air and the sound of car engines revving to life filled my ears. Others were fleeing the site of the crime, running from the danger. I looked toward it, drawn. The fly to the bug-zapper. The mouse to the trap. The bird to the ground, inevitable.

I crooked my head back to stare upward for a few seconds then let my arms snap straight toward the gutter, broken puppet, when Gasoline made an impatient noise above me. There were still a good six inches from the tips of my fingers to the edge of the metal, even when I pushed myself up onto my toes, legs shivery. Exhaling sharply, I dropped back onto my heels and glanced around the yard for something to balance on the railing to give me a lift. Children’s toys, tools, flower pots, all useless and concealed by the dark.

The flinch that I couldn’t suppress when warm fingers wrapped around my wrists almost knocked me off the railing, but Gasoline’s grip kept me still, trapped in his callused hands. Again my breath hitched in my throat with surprise at the contact, the casualness he was treating me with, as if we knew each other. The pause in my lungs turned to choking when he jerked sharply on my arms and lifted me a few inches off of the wood beneath me feet. I panicked and kicked slightly when he dragged me higher.

“Stay still,” he growled, and although his tone was only scolding, I was still effectively intimidated, freezing. His voice didn’t sound as quick, as uncontrolled as earlier, and I could tell he was starting to come down off of his high. Hopefully his feelings of apparent animosity remained under his control until I was either safely on the roof or away from him altogether. I wasn’t quite as eager to suffer as I had been earlier, not when I’d just learned another way to help myself; fire was more useful than I could have imagined.

Despite the fact that I believed Gasoline was the person I needed, the fact that I’d practically been stalking him, I didn’t really trust him. Nor was I sure why my mortal fear was catching up with me now, in a situation where I most likely wouldn’t die if I fell, but it probably had something to do with the feeling of finality coursing through my system.

This was irreversible, this acceptance, and even though I’d already taken the dive, maybe I wasn’t quite ready yet to open my eyes. It’s like submerging yourself in the public swimming pool; you keep them shut tight against the chlorine and various other things floating around until you work up the courage to force them open. Or get tired of not being able to see. I had taken the jump without opening my eyes, and I wasn’t quite sure when I finally would.

Gasoline pulled me higher, his feet wedged against the gutter, ignoring the high pitched creak that was slitting through the air as its nails slowly pried loose from their places. When my hands were high enough I tried to make a grab for the edge myself, but he didn’t let me, yanking me up faster for a second, as if he wanted full control of my fate. He wanted to make sure I knew that I wouldn’t be here but for him. The power play was obvious and my fists unexpectedly tightened, useless.

A moment later I had already forgotten my brief spasm of anger, my fingers scrabbling for Gasoline’s wrists as he began to swing me from side to side. With one last pull I was suddenly up on the roof, tugged up to lay sprawled next to him, breathless. He didn’t pause for me to recover, instead getting to his feet and heading straight to the higher part of the roof. For a few seconds he stood there, waiting, but his voice quickly shocked me out of my temporary reprieve.

“If you can’t keep up then you might as well leave now.” Another scream punctuated the night and he shifted with irritation, eyes flitting to the next step of the roof, eager.

I was at his side in a split-second; no way was I getting left behind. Gasoline showed no sign of surprise, just bent his knees and linked his fingers together in a net that I was obviously supposed to use to get up onto the next level. Carefully, I placed my foot in his hands, uncomfortable from the closeness, but unwilling to let that get to me. Social inhibitions were no longer my problem and it was time to get over them; unfortunately things like this were ingrained.

With a sudden quick-snap of his legs I was airborne, flying upward toward the gutter at an alarming rate, adrenaline surging through my chest (or was I nose-diving downward into that bottomless black sky?). For a second I felt weightless, boundless, then my arms instinctively slapped down onto the roof, my legs still hanging over the edge as the gutter dug sharply into my hip bones. The shingles tore at my skin, scratchy and serrated, tiny little knives of gravel and fiberglass. I was sliding backward, losing my grip. Hoping maybe Gasoline cared enough at this point to catch me.

His hands were suddenly on my legs, pushing on the backs of my thighs—I wasn’t as high above him as I had thought I was—and my descent stopped. The pressure shifted slowly to just above my knees, his fingers wrapping around and pressing on my skin through my jeans, making me shiver as he shoved me further into the air. Inside the house beneath my hands, I imagined an opulently decorated bedroom, a middle-aged, financially secure couple shifting in their uninterrupted sleep, ignorant of the delinquents skittering across their roof like spiders. I smiled and finished the climb.

The palms of my hands stung, rubbed raw from the gritty shingles, but I ignored them and wobbled to my feet. Behind me Gasoline dragged himself up, much more gracefully than I had, nearly soundless. The night sky was lit with flames, an orange glow destroying the darkness that seemed to press so close on us. I stared at the burning building, stunned.

I had done this. Even though I hadn’t spread the accelerant, hadn’t dropped the match, I had assisted this inferno, prodded it into life. My inaction had caused this destruction. Remorse wasn’t the word for what I was feeling.

Pride. Satisfaction. Contentment. I felt whole and at peace for the first time in years. Complete. The pounding of my veins was enough to prove to me that I was alive for once, and for that short moment I didn’t need anyone looking at me to know that I was real. Having myself, knowing what I had done, what I was capable of, was enough. I was higher than any medicinal stimulant could take me, lightheaded.

Gasoline moved past me, shocking me back into my body, back into reality. I didn’t take my eyes from the fire that was currently still eating the first floor of the upper class home down the street, but my curiosity peeked suddenly, jerking me toward where he stood near the edge of the roof. The sudden movement made me slip a little, but I quickly regained my footing on the slanted surface, exhaling sharply as the longer section of my hair blew across my face.

I came up next to Gasoline, keeping a careful distance, but for some reason wanting to move closer, and stared at the blaze with him. My mind itched to be nearer to the fire, to feel the heat on my face, to have my skin lit yellow with that destroying light, but I knew that if I was found that close, simply staring at the fire, I would no doubt be questioned when the fire department and the rest of our towns jolly authority figures showed up. I could hear the sirens already, traveling the streets at unsafe speeds.

Flash forward to almost the same scene with almost the same people, but add eighty stories to our height, two hundred more armed peacekeepers, and three hundred million more watching. Multiply the devastation and divide by the ticking of a broken clock. Everything has been set in motion now. Is this outcome unavoidable?

“I can’t believe you’re still here.”

His voice startled me and I stumbled slightly, coming back down again, before glancing at him curiously. What about my presence was so hard to believe? I’d been dogging his steps for a week, and he still wasn’t convinced that I was going to stick around? I didn’t know then that he had been so isolated for so long that the idea of honest human contact was almost a figment of his imagination.

“Still here,” I echoed quietly. He probably thought I was a half-wit, what with the way I never really created my own replies, just changed his slightly. I needed to step it up in order to hold his attention, to come out of the social box I’d locked my real personality in to protect it from the fake world. Easier said than done.

His eyes flickered to my face once and I sensed the annoyance in them, irritation with my inability to be creative. ‘Sorry, I’m only a reflection,’ I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I was too afraid to.

Instead I asked, “What’s your name?” A commonly accepted icebreaker. Bland. Tasteless. Insert standard teenage greeting here, hold the ice.

Gasoline looked at me again, measuring me up, taking in my hair for the first time, my mismatched clothes, all of it without comment. I stared back at him, at his basic black outfit, his rainbow-bright hair. Neither was quite satisfied with what they saw, nor was either surprised by that fact. No one’s perfect and the real kicker was that both of us had realized this prematurely. We had given up on looking for flawlessness. We weren’t looking for the most collected exterior. Not the biggest smile and the best personality. We had been disillusioned.

Instead I had chosen the most shattered being I could find, simply because I was tired of false perfection, of being lied to. I didn’t want Gasoline to be normal, to be understandable, or to be predictable. I knew that deep down everyone was distorted, and I’d rather know that from the beginning, see that on the surface, than deceive myself with another seemingly faultless individual. If the only way a person could truly be who they were was to be broken, disregarding appearances and consequences, I would choose the truth instead of the carefully made-up charade.

Hopefully Gasoline felt the same because I sure as hell wasn’t the ideal confidant.

His head twitched slightly to the side, thoughtful, and I felt my body instinctively tense in anticipation. Another obstacle, another pit of stakes at the bottom. I had to cross or be left behind, but there was always that little risk.

But he simply sat down on the edge of the roof, pushing his long legs over the edge, letting them dangle, and turned his gaze back to the burning house. The police were there now, the firefighters, the paramedics, and all the flashing lights had my head spinning. There was a short burst of emotion; the hope that everyone had gotten out okay. I don’t want anyone to die; I’m not a murderer. I’m not a killer.

Hesitating for only a split second, I quickly made the decision to sit down next to him and did so, carefully scooting forward until the backs of my knees were against the farthest boundary of the roof, the ridges of the shingles digging into my skin at the joint. The boy next to me only glanced over once, then continued to ignore me, obviously preferring to focus on the destruction rather than my slightly nervous expression. However, I wasn’t going to have any of that. Really, I’m an impatient person, and even my not-so-strong sense of self-preservation couldn’t keep me from nudging people who probably shouldn’t be bothered if I wanted to keep all my limbs in their current position.

Gasoline was absentmindedly running the fingers of his right hand over those of his left, tracing the raised calluses, the blisters and scars, and I watched for a few minutes, captivated by the rhythmic movement. I’d given up once again on him giving me a name, but I was all too eager to prod him into another mind-bendingly-easy-to-lose-control-of-my-mouth conversation. The state of his skin was as good a subject as any, and still cautiously in the arena of ‘everyday speak’, so I readily cleared my throat.

“What did you do to your hands?”

He pointedly kept his gaze away, trying to demean my question to a level too low to acknowledge, attempting to drive me away to protect himself. However, he answered, his voice as gravelly as ever.

“Burned them.”

“How?” Stupid question, even I knew that, but I just wanted to hear him say the words himself. I wanted proof, truth, to know that I hadn’t somehow misinterpreted the whole situation.

Predictably, he looked at me like I was an idiot, his face clearly asking, ‘do you walk around blind?’ His words were simpler, shorter, and I could tell he didn’t want to be having this conversation.

“Playing with fire.”

He was shutting down, closing himself away now that the drugs weren’t erasing his inhibitions, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. So I provoked him to keep him accessible.

“And gasoline?”

“What do you want?” He snapped, pistol sharp, as if he had just realized how severely he’d underestimated how annoying I could be. Even though I was afraid of him rejecting me, even though I was currently hanging over a twenty-five foot drop, I knew I couldn’t allow him to block me out, not if I wanted to survive. Conflicting interests, seeing as one wrong step in either direction could have me dying in one way or another, but strangely enough, I sort of liked it. The risk was exhilarating.

There was only one answer to his question, only one that would be truthful enough, unguarded enough, to possibly bind us together.

“To burn.”

And this, my friends, is the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Chaos, packaged and wrapped, with a shiny, fiery little bow on top.

He stared at me, too-shiny hazel eyes reflecting the flames, and I could see not only his surprise, but his hope. He wanted me to be real, to be like him, to understand. I don’t know if I was what he needed, then or now, but I know that right then he believed I was. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the drugs that made him able to accept me when the only reaction he’d had earlier was to defend himself from me. Maybe he saw me as his last chance. Whatever it was, right then there was a change, and it was a change I’d been waiting for.

A shift in gears that brought us both one step closer to that head on collision looming in the distance. Will the crash be a beginning or an end?

“Call me Cain.”

Again, his voice made me flinch, but I quickly recovered. He was giving me a name, though apparently it wasn’t his real one, but that had to mean something didn’t it? That had to be some sort of sign, signify an approval didn’t it? I thought about it.

Cain. Ironic in a twisted sort of way. The original killer. Betrayer. Someone treacherous, deadly, frightening. It fit him.

Our eyes were still connected, and, remembering our first conversation, I asked, “Isn’t that a dangerous name to have?” Just like when he’d discovered my name was Delilah. How fitting, two traitors finding each other.

His returning gaze was sharper, never quite relaxed, and he didn’t reply. Just stared meaningfully. Apparently, he’d chosen that name for the distinct purpose of it sounding dangerous. Maybe he considered it a warning, a yield sign that would make it the victim's fault if they got too close and were hurt. Sort of like, ‘I told you not to trust me.’ Get any closer and I will destroy you. A disclaimer.

I’ll be the first to admit that the threat was intoxicating. I wanted the danger, the thrill, more than I feared the consequences, and that made Gasoline, or Cain now, the perfect target. I would get so close, imbedded, that the only way he’d be able to cut me out would be to annihilate himself. The perfect parasite. I needed his perilous promise to keep myself going, he needed my companionship to keep from dying out, and the other way around. The danger just made everything that much more seductive.

Human beings are natural thrill seekers. We bungee jump. We sky dive. We break the rules and we push our boundaries.

We play with fire not despite the chance of getting burned, but because of it.

Now I’d found the ultimate adrenaline boost, a drugless high that could alter me more than any chemical.

Cain was my fire and I was more than ready to play.

Music: “Whispers in the Dark” by Skillet, “Spinning Out of Control” by Hoobastank, and “You Spin Me Right Round” (cover) by Dope

a/n - Whoo! It took long enough to get out and I haven't even started writing the next chapter, but all well, I posted. Things are sufficiently chaotic around here at the moment, what with the end of the year hype, so I'm sorry if I'm slow. :) Anyways, hope you liked it and thanks to silentsound, Evil Angel of DOOM, Georgianna, Faith Adeline, authordream4life, She Had Somewhere To Go, Dellarose, Aleksy Lorraine, ripmyheart.not.myskinnyjeans, awesomelyme, codyismypup, A.V. Mackie, and she gets skills from the pills for reviewing! Love you all muchly and give you lots 'o candy! Yeah, I've returned to good old candy.

silentsound: Ha, that's okay. :) I hope this chapter explained a little, if not much, about why he reacted the way he did before and I hope his less violent reaction removed some of your hatred. And about Delilah...I don't really know what I'm going for actually. It kind of made me happy when you said she was a thing, because she isn't really sure who she is and it's kind of good that that's coming through somehow. Hopefully later, once she experiences some more, she'll start to seem more like a person again.

Evil Angel of DOOM: Maybe it was set up to be crazy...I don't know, it wasn't really set up at all. I'm sort of just letting it carry me where it may. :)

She Had Somewhere To Go: Okay, I like you, cause you like Gasoline. Who now has a name by the way. Anyways, I'm glad you like it that much. There's been a couple people that have said they reread the chapters, which is awesome I guess. I'm rereadable. Woot! Anyways, lots of thanks.

Dellarose: Yeah, I've been hella busy too, I know how that is. I also love Queens of the Stoneage, so yay!

Aleksy Lorraine: Ha, yeah, biweekly. It sucks, I know. :) Anyways, I'm not really sure I like where it's going either. It's kind of just dragging me along behind it, you know? Yeah, she's selfish, but she doesn't really realize it because she's...selfish. All she really cares about is how SHE can effect the world and how SHE can make a difference. I'm hoping this will change with Cain, but then it will only be him that matters, along with himself. So yeah, there's a lot of issues in this that may or may not be resolved until the very end. Blegh, that's the problem; I don't know how she'll feel in the future until I get to it.

codyismypup: Of course the no talking wasn't your fault, I'm just a horribly busy loser. Hehe...'you must want sex'...I love how we have inside jokes and we don't even know each other. It's great. I bet I dance like an epileptic person too. Actually, speaking of going crazy while pretending to be on acid...I totally messed up my back. It really sucks, but the videos my friends have of me rolling around on the floor and screaming like a psychopath really make up for it. I guess. Yeah, I'm funny that way. Oh, and by the way I HATE YOUR GUTS. Breaking Benjamin and Marilyn Manson have been my favorite musical people since seventh grade and you got to see one of them. For this I dislike you greatly, and for Seether and Trapt and Three Days Grace and for all of the other awesome people you've seen and I haven't. Well, I don't hate you really, but I'm still extremely jealous. I laughed so hard when you said Breaking Benjamin broke onto the stage in drag...they officially became my all time heroes just then. Ha, I started another story too, and hopefully I'll stick to it, even though I have this and the sequel to How High to do. I understand your pain. And I like super sexy guys and angry main characters...always an interesting combination. Omg, if Gasoline was crowned ruler of the known universe, I'm pretty sure we'd all be fucked. There's a scary thought to finish my message. Eek.

she gets pills from the skills: Thanks, glad you liked. :) And your question: yeah, he does conform, unlike Delilah, but that's only because he's been alone in his knowledge of his own insignificance for so long that he had to conform as little as possible in order to stay sane. Or as sane as he is, at least. Delilah just realized it, and look how messed up she already is. Now think about poor Cain. He still doesn't completely fit in with the emo/goth people though, because he can't talk to them about anything that matters. Herein lies the reason he and Delilah connected so easily. Hope my babbling helped.